No Worse Than Any Man
by Waltzin Atlanta
Summary: When Champmathieu is convicted and returned to Toulon, Madeleine remains the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer. Javert must face the fact that Madeleine is not Jean Valjean, a thief and convict—he is just a man, and no worse than any man. COMPLETE.
1. Javert's Dismissal & the Mayor's Mission

**Summary: **When Champmathieu is convicted and returned to Toulon, Madeleine remains the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer. Javert must face the fact that Madeleine is not Jean Valjean, a thief and convict—he is just a man, and no worse than any man.

**Author's Note: **This story was originally written for the Les Mis kink meme over on LiveJournal. However, it turned out incredibly _un_-kinky and developed a plot instead; somehow, all of the intended smut between Javert and Valjean blossomed into this elaborate AU. This was written as a (very) long one-shot, which is broken up here to make it easier to read.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

* * *

**No Worse Than Any Man**

_Javert's Dismissal & the Mayor's Mission_

Javert's knock was as formidable as the man himself. Three thuds came in quick succession, and the oak door rang handsomely.

"Come in. Ah, Javert."

At first, the mayor's voice was gentle, as though he spoke to a particularly shy child; as he caught sight of Javert, a chill crept into it. It was about the woman—Fantine—Javert knew. Six months in jail was no more than she deserved. Bad enough to be a creature of the night when there was honest work to be had, but he could not punish her for that. To assault a man was a different matter, and he seized the opportunity to arrest her like a wolf set on a wounded deer. Her appeals in the station had left him unmoved—it meant nothing to him that she owed money or had a sick child—but the mayor's heart was soft. Javert had seen enough of whores to know that tears were merely another way they used their body, but her pleas had awakened some strange sort of pity in the mayor.

But that was not what concerned him at present.

"Monsieur Mayor." The next words stuck in his throat. It was a great blow to his pride to admit being wrong, but even less so could he subvert the law. "I have failed in both my duty and station; I am no longer fit to serve on the police of Montreuil-sur-mer. I ask for my dismissal."

Rarely did any emotion disrupt the mayor's serene expression; surprise was strange on him.

"Your dismissal? Whatever for?"

"I have been insubordinate and underhanded. I would resign immediately, but that is not enough. I deserve to be punished. You must dismiss me."

"I do not understand. You have always done your duty most . . . effectively."

For a moment, the mayor was far away. Whatever memories danced in his head seemed unpleasant—in that second, his eyes were wild, almost brutish. But when Javert blinked, the mayor had returned to himself. That did not stop Javert's spine from tingling, the same itch he felt when apprehending a man in the street; the expression had been almost familiar. He stopped himself quickly—that sort of thinking had been the cause of this trouble in the first place. The expression _couldn't_ be familiar . . . his next words were proof enough against that.

"Six weeks ago, I wrote to the Prefect of Police in Paris. I told him of my suspicions regarding a prominent figure of Montreuil-sur-mer; I said that I thought the mayor, Monsieur Madeleine, was not who he claimed. I named him an ex-convict from Toulon—a Jean Valjean."

"Jean Valjean? Who is Jean Valjean?"

"A convict I knew from Toulon years ago—a bread thief from Faverolles who robbed a bishop upon being released. You see, Monsieur Mayor, for some time I had suspected . . . there were certain similarities . . . your strength when you lifted the cart off of old Fauchelevent, your marksmanship, your right leg which drags a little, as if from the chain . . . but I see now that I was wrong."

"Go on." The mayor's voice was as impassive as his face. Both were stone.

"Several weeks later, I received a reply from the Prefect. I was out of my mind, he said; it was impossible that Jean Valjean had become the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, for he had been apprehended that very week. It seems a man called Champmathieu was caught stealing apples and identified as Jean Valjean."

"Is that so?" For all of the mayor's apparent disinterest, he hung on Javert's every word.

"It was a messy business, monsieur. Stealing apples is no great crime, it is true, only a misdemeanor—but add in highway robbery and stealing from a bishop . . . it was not a difficult decision for the jury."

"And what has become of this Champmathieu—that is, Jean Valjean?"

"Oh, he has been tried and returned to Toulon; this time he will serve for life. He insisted until the end that he knew of no Jean Valjean, that he was only Champmathieu. But Valjean has always been sly—no doubt he thought feigning ignorance an effective ploy. But the jury was not fooled."

"Their verdict is final? There is no chance of him going free?"

"Rest assured, he is already behind bars. He will serve with no chance for parole—he will die there and his bones will rot in the prison. The Eternal Father himself could not reach him now."

Madeleine's face was so white it was almost indistinguishable from his shirt. The papers he had been stacking fell from his hands at Javert's words.

"The man denied it all, you say? But how could you be sure—how do you know there was no mistake?"

"I went to Arras and identified him myself, as did three other convicts he served with. He was the man—there was no mistaking it. Older, stupider, but I would have recognized him anywhere."

Underneath his shame, Javert could not suppress the smallest tinge of satisfaction. Valjean was back where he belonged—behind bars—thanks in part to Javert. He had acted disgracefully, certainly, but perhaps he had not been totally useless; his dismissal would mark the end of a successful, if shortened, career. But one small triumph did not excuse his gross misconduct.

"So you see, Monsieur Mayor, why I have come. I have denounced you—wrongfully, at that—and I must be punished."

"You wish to be relieved?"

"Dismissed. I have been no better than a spy, and it is _you_, Monsieur Mayor, who has been most wronged. I have abused my authority, and I must be stripped of it."

Madeleine looked at him with eyes that did not see. His imperturbable calm had shattered. Javert watched as he returned to shuffling papers and noticed that his hands shook slightly. His distress was understandable—had Champmathieu not been caught, perhaps _Madeleine_ would have stood before the court, tried for crimes he did not commit. Until seeing Champmathieu, Javert had been convinced that Madeleine was Valjean. The jury might have been similarly tricked, for they had never even seen the convict. It would have been easy to send the wrong man back to prison; small wonder Madeleine trembled at how narrowly he had escaped that fate.

But when the mayor spoke, his voice was steadier than his hands.

"You exaggerate your crime, Javert. You have caused me no harm, and I hold you in high esteem. If you wish to resign, you may, but I will not dismiss you. There is no need. If anything, this is but another example of your outstanding honesty."

"But Monsieur Mayor—"

"That is all. Thank you for the information, but I am afraid it concerns me not. You may go."

Javert obeyed. His footsteps leaving were as measured as his knock on the door.

* * *

With the real Valjean behind bars, Javert saw less and less of him in the mayor. The similarities between the two were not so great after all. Madeleine's skill with a gun was unparalleled, but that was easily attributed to good eyes and a steady hand. A fall from a horse or some childhood accident could have injured his leg; it was not altogether uncommon to walk with a bit of a limp. As for his enormous strength—well, times of stress did strange things to a man.

They did look similar—that much Javert still saw—but it was their manner which contrasted most. Madeleine's wealth was not tempered by pride. He was kind to all, regardless of their station—Fantine was proof enough of that. His voice took on the same patient tone whether he spoke to the visiting Minister of State or the orphaned boy who swept the streets at night. No one knew where he came from; beneath his genteel clothing, he looked like a laborer with his tanned face and callused hands. But no laborer walked with the quiet dignity of Mayor Madeleine.

Valjean had been sullen and illiterate. He had rarely spoken, and yet there had been something disquieting about him all the same. He was never violent—apart from his four escape attempts, he never raised a finger against anyone, prisoner or guard—but the other convicts gave him a wide berth nonetheless. His stare had been disconcerting even to the fearsome Javert. Those eyes, sunken and yet bright with anger, were not the sad eyes of Mayor Madeleine.

Still, old habits remained, and he observed the mayor closely. The tumult he had taken on during Javert's visit had not faded. He walked like a man who saw nothing of his surroundings. People called to him in the street, but he did not answer—perhaps he did not hear them over his inner turmoil. His hair, which had been grey, had turned white.

Early each morning, Javert walked around the perimeter of the town and down the main street before heading to the station. After years spent at Toulon, he still woke with the dawn, and he liked to patrol the streets in the morning. Some days, he found vagrants curled in an alley or drunkards slumped on the tavern's doorstep. They always scampered like rats at Javert's shadow in the morning light. The main terror of the destitute was not hunger or sickness—it was Javert.

The mayor rose early as well; most mornings, Javert saw him on the way to city hall. The mayor would raise his hand in greeting and Javert would tip his hat respectfully before both went on their way. As of late, however, the mayor forsook his office in favor of the hospital. His devotion to the woman was completely unfathomable to Javert. She was the very dregs of society: dependent on the charity of others and a burden to all. But if it was pity she wanted, it was pity she found, for Madeleine visited her every morning.

The hospital was at the end of the square, closer to the police station than the mayor's office. As such, the two often crossed paths as of late. Their exchange was the same each day:

"Good morning, Javert," the mayor would say with that distracted look he had worn lately.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor," Javert would respond.

Javert addressed the mayor with a sort of awkward deference. Even three weeks later, his embarrassment regarding the Champmathieu affair burned as freshly as ever. The mayor never mentioned Javert's insubordinance, but it needed no reminder. All he had to do was look at Madeleine, the face that to him had once resembled Valjean's, to be overcome with shame.

Since he had received no official punishment, Javert imposed his own. He responded to disturbances with a ferocious quickness; gendarmes patrolling the area were often surprised to find Javert already at the scene. He wrote reports with a diligence that was almost obsessive. If he was not finished with his paperwork at the end of the day, he did not go home; if he was busy with an investigation at the hour given for lunch, he did not eat.

He was carefully polite to the wealthy and painstakingly restrained around the poor. This did not make him less intimidating; he was even more terrifying in his moody silence. Around the mayor, he was the most cautious of all.

He would have avoided him altogether, but the police station and the hospital were too close to permit it, short of Javert going far out of his way. Instead, he kept his greeting to "good morning." Thankfully, the mayor never tried to make conversation. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts, Javert drowning in self-reproach and the mayor in his mysterious agitation.

This morning, however, Madeleine seemed to be in good spirits. The fog surrounding him had lifted slightly. He carried a basket over one arm, which Javert saw was full of pears.

"Good morning, Javert," he said. Javert tipped his hat.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor."

"Farmer Deschamp was up before dawn to harvest these pears—he says they are better if picked when it's cool. He was kind enough to give me these. Would you care to try one? They are quite ripe, and yet not too sweet."

"No thank you, Monsieur Mayor." Javert was not fond of pears, nor any kind of fruit. They were too sweet for him—simple foods, bread and sometimes meat, had sustained him all of his life. Fruits were unheard of in Toulon, and they were a delicacy he had never grown accustomed to.

"I am bringing these to Fantine and the good sisters at the hospital. Pears are no substitute for a doctor, I realize, but perhaps their taste will lift her spirits. Are you sure you will not have one? There are plenty to spare."

He offered the basket. Contrition made Javert slowly reach out and pluck the topmost one. The fuzzy texture was foreign against his rough skin.

Madeleine looked pleased. "Good day," he said, and moved off toward the hospital.

The pear was heavy in Javert's hand, hidden in the sleeves of his great overcoat. He took a bite cautiously, but juice still ran down his chin.

It was too sweet, as he had known. He threw it away as he walked to the police station.

* * *

Javert's office was small, but that did not hinder him. His few possessions were organized precisely. On his desk, papers were stacked meticulously in two piles: processed and to be done.

He left late that evening, as he had for the past month; he stayed several hours after the other officers traipsed home to dinner with their wives and children. As Javert had no family, he lingered in his office until the light began to fade. When the church bells tolled eight, he straightened his desk, nodded at the desk sergeant on his way out, and walked through the town one last time before heading to his small apartment.

He took his customary route down the main way. The streets were deserted, but as he passed the city hall, he was surprised to see a light flickering in the mayor's office. Strange shadows darted from wall to wall.

It was far too late for the mayor to be at work. It could only be an intruder riffling through files, or perhaps ransacking the mayor's desk. There was no night watchman in the building—it was no more than a lucky chance that Javert was passing by.

The front door was unlocked—surprising, given the hour—as if the thief valued stealth and had picked the lock rather than force the door. Javert crept up the stairs, stopping just outside the mayor's door. He could hear the floorboards creaking, as though the thief flitted nervously from cabinet to cabinet.

Javert was through the door in an instant; this door, also unlocked, had given way easily, and he could not stop himself from flying into the room.

Madeleine looked as surprised as Javert.

"Javert!"

"Monsieur Mayor!"

Their voices overlapped. Madeleine was as agitated as Javert had ever seen him—his hair was disheveled, as though he'd been pulling at it, and his clothes were rumpled. He was a far cry from the man who had so casually offered a pear.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Mayor. I saw shadows on the wall, and I thought maybe an intruder . . ." It was the third time in three months Javert had been humiliated, and all three times in the presence of the mayor. He wished he had been dismissed.

"No matter," said Madeleine. "It was an honest mistake—you have done no more than your duty, as always. But what on earth are you doing about the streets at this hour?"

Javert wondered the same of the mayor. "I was just leaving the station."

"So late? What has happened?"

"Nothing. But there are always reports to be written and warrants to be filed."

"Surely the other officers are not so dedicated as to stay this far into the evening. Your diligence is to be commended."

"Thank you, Monsieur Mayor."

He had been dismissed, but Javert did not leave. Curiosity had cooled his embarrassment. Madeleine sighed and took a seat.

"Now that I know why you have come so late, I suppose you are wondering the same of me. We are both here, when reasonable men have long since gone home . . . perhaps neither of us are reasonable men.

"Fantine is now with God; she left us early this evening. The good sisters at the hospital could do nothing to ease her passing, but I take some solace in knowing that her suffering is now over."

The mayor looked troubled, but Javert hardly noticed. In three minutes, he had gone from humiliated to curious and back to uncomfortable. It was not the woman's death that bothered him; whores died all the time, and the town was better for it. No, it was the way the mayor continued to speak to about it, as though Javert should share his pity for the woman's fate.

"She leaves behind a child—a young girl in Montfermeil, where she sent money every month. When she was sacked from the factory, she found herself in debt."

Even months later, there was still shame in his voice as he mentioned the incident. Javert grew even more uncomfortable; the tension between them over her arrest had not fully dissipated.

"Before she died, I promised I would bring the child here. Now she is gone, and her dream unfulfilled."

The mayor's eyes roving eyes landed on Javert, as if seeking his opinion. Javert cleared his throat. "The woman is dead—surely your obligation died with her."

Madeleine inhaled sharply. "No, Javert. I failed her in life—I must not fail her in death."

"She has no family, no relatives here. Who will care for the child, now that she is gone? A child without a mother has no place." Javert himself was an example of that; born to a gypsy mother and a galley slave, he was forever on the outskirts of society. Entering the police force had been the only path open to him—that, or to become one of the men they hunted. "No, better that she stay with the innkeeper."

Madeleine rose, and retook up pacing the floor. In the candlelight, he looked almost savage. Javert recognized the same shadows he had seen from the window, and they danced over the mayor as he prowled the room like a caged animal.

"I must bring her here," he repeated. There was a finality in his voice when he spoke again. "The child will live with me. I have no children—I will raise her as my own. She is without a mother, but no longer without a father."

Javert's disbelief had no words. The mayor's guilt had driven him to care for the woman—that much he understood. But to saddle himself with her child . . . and a _tramp's _child! What was one more brat left to roam the streets?

"Forgive me," the mayor said, eyes raised to the ceiling. Javert knew he spoke not to him, but to the departed Fantine. "I have not forgotten my promise. I swear to you, I will not forsake my vow."

Madeleine turned back to Javert, as if noticing him for the first time. "I leave tomorrow." The wildness in him had faded, and he moved with deliberation to the closet to retrieve his coat. Javert, still reeling from the mayor's swift decision, followed him into the hallway like a dog at its master's heels.

They did not break the silence in the street. A remarkable change had overtaken the mayor. The tormented expression he had worn of late had vanished—he seemed resolute in his task. They parted ways at the end of the square; the mayor lived down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc while Javert kept two rooms on the very edge of the town.

"Good night, Javert," said Madeleine at the intersection.

"Good night, Monsieur Mayor."


	2. Cosette

**No Worse Than Any Man**

_Cosette_

The mayor was gone three days. When he returned, he was accompanied by a small figure, more waif than child. Noses pressed to store windows as the townspeople stared at the odd pair walking down the street, the girl's small hand completely enveloped by the mayor's.

"Good morning, Javert," said Madeleine as usual.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor." The small figure retreated behind the mayor.

"Javert, this is Cosette. Cosette, this is Inspector Javert." The mayor spoke tenderly; only three days and he already cared for the child. "He works for the police department. His job is to keep the town safe—when someone has done wrong, Javert makes sure they will not do it again."

Cosette did not speak, but she inched out from behind Madeleine to stare up at Javert with solemn eyes. She was terribly thin—no more than skin stretched over bones—and her cheekbones protruded almost grotesquely from her pinched face. There was something inherently frightened about her, like a lark afraid of the sky, and yet she gazed at Madeleine with utmost trust.

"Cosette," Javert repeated, careful to keep the distaste from his voice. He hated children, and they had no love of him. They were pests, but because of their very nature, he could not punish them. To jail a man for petty theft was one thing, but a child . . . still, they were quick to stay out of his way—they knew not to throw rocks at the birds when Javert was around, and all play in the street stopped when the inspector passed through.

But Cosette was no street urchin, that much was clear. She looked enough like one, despite the fine coat and black dress the mayor had clothed her in: her hair was lank and brittle, and she did not have the pretty face and rosy complexion so common in children. But there was no laughter in her. Those ragged children that roamed the street laughed raucously as they scampered along. The line of Cosette's mouth was thin and straight.

She carried a doll under one arm. It was a beautiful doll, as if to make up for its owner's homeliness, with thick hair and a sweet face. Only the painted eyes were as large and guileless as Cosette's. Now, she clutched it to her chest as she clung to the mayor.

"I am showing Cosette the town. Right now we are going to city hall, and then the factories," he said. "Perhaps we will stop by the police station later. Good day, Javert."

Javert tipped his hat, and the mayor moved off down the street. They were a strange trio—the dignified gentleman, small girl, and sweetly smiling doll—and yet somehow, they fit. The mayor looked more at peace than Javert could remember; the agitation and troubled manner he had adopted since the Champmathieu affair had vanished. He walked as a man who had found peace at last.

x x x

True to his word, the mayor returned that afternoon. The rapping on Javert's door was not as thunderous as Javert's own, but it was the knock of a confident man all the same.

"Hello again, Inspector. We have just come from the grocer's. Perhaps you will show us the station?"

Javert put down his pen. He was an officer, not a clerk; it should fall to the desk sergeant to usher them around. Still, he could not refuse the mayor—not when he had pardoned Javert for his insubordinance. He stood, unfolding to his full height.

"You have seen the cells?" he asked. The station had only two holding cells that were rarely occupied; those convicted by the municipal court were kept in the city jail. Serious criminals, of which Montreuil-sur-mer had few, were sent to the district prison in Arras.

The mayor winced. "No—but on second thought, perhaps not." For a moment, his eyes were haunted. "There is no need for her to see . . ."

Sheltering the child would do no good, Javert thought. Better she saw what became of those who defied the law—perhaps then she would not be tempted. Such had been the case with Javert; his earliest memories were of cold bars and stone. By the time his mother was released and they walked down that dismal hallway for the last time, he understood the importance of obeying the law. From then on, he was on the other side of those bars.

"As you wish."

Apart from the cells, the station was not much more than an office building, and it did not take long to walk through. During it all, Cosette clung to Madeleine's hand, her doll secure in the other. They stopped in the room off the main hallway. It was small and bare, with nothing more than a long table and a bench. This was where the arrested were brought for questioning. It was grim, with no windows and a single candle. Normally, Javert did not have to conduct much of an interrogation; most suspects were so petrified by the room and the inspector that they confessed quickly.

Cosette surveyed the room somberly, then looked at Javert. Her eyes were disconcerting. Not their color, or how they were too big for her face. It was their expression—they were empty. Yet as she looked at the mayor, they brightened.

Javert knew them. They were Fantine's eyes. They had sparked with hope three months before, in this very place, at the mayor's words: "Set this woman free."

And now her child was here with her eyes. Twice now he had seen them light up with hope, and twice that hope had been directed at the same man: the mayor. Now, as Javert observed the man's doting features and the child who regarded him so trustingly, a peculiar feeling overtook him. The girl's face faded into another's, just as thin, but older. When she smiled, her two front teeth were missing. But there was no mistaking the expression—Fantine was at peace.

Mayor Madeleine had kept his promise.

* * *

It was nearly three weeks before Javert heard Cosette speak. Every morning the mayor greeted Javert, but Cosette, nearly hidden behind Madeleine's coattails, never said a word. Javert began to wonder if she were mute.

The townspeople had quickly come to love the little girl. The baker gave her a fresh roll as they passed and waved off the mayor when he tried to press a coin into his hand. The hat maker made her a bonnet and a matching miniature for her doll. The matrons, who had at first raised their eyebrows and gossiped behind closed doors, now smiled at the father and daughter as they walked down the street. Soon, the story got out. The mayor was truly a saint; the girl was the child of the fallen woman, Fantine. When the poor woman died of sickness, the mayor adopted her child as his own.

Javert found a sick sort of amusement in how the women now ennobled Fantine when six months earlier they had condemned her. He did not laugh.

"Inspector Javert?" Only the desk sergeant's head poked into Javert's office; the rest of him looked ready to bolt. "There is a girl here . . . I didn't know what to do . . ." He trailed off hesitantly. Javert looked up.

Cosette stood in the doorway, small and pale in the same black dress she always wore. Without the mayor beside her she looked particularly frail, though she obviously recognized Javert.

"Where is Monsieur Madeleine?" he asked her.

Her lips moved as if she meant to speak, but no sound escaped. Javert sighed. Of course she would not speak now, when he had a question of her.

"Sergeant, go to the mayor's office. Tell him that the gir—that Cosette is here at the police station. How she found her way here, I do not know."

If the sergeant thought it was a strange errand, he didn't say so. He was not five minutes in returning. Cosette had not made a sound.

"The mayor is not there," he panted. "Claude Dumont, his clerk, says that he went to see the postman earlier this morning about stopping twice a week at Saint Pol, and then he was going to the parish church to talk with the curé. The stairs to the bell tower are rickety, and the mayor was going to see about replacing them—but he has not yet returned."

Javert frowned, and the sergeant stuttered nervously.

"Perhaps I can go back and have Dumont bring her back to the office? Or shall I send for the mayor?"

Javert's frown deepened. For all Cosette did not speak or fuss like the other children, she was just as great of a nuisance.

"No." He should send her outside and leave her to find her way back to city hall. The police station was not a lost and found; let the girl fend for herself. But then he thought of the mayor. "It is more trouble than it is worth. She can stay here for a while—I will bring her back myself when I finish this citation."

The sergeant left, and Javert cursed himself and debt he owed the mayor. He was an inspector of the police, not a nursemaid; it was not his duty to attend to wayward children. Even more, he was particularly ill-suited to the task, he thought—it would be much more fitting for the baker's wife to watch the girl, or perhaps the seamstress down the street . . .

But Cosette did not seem to mind. She sat quietly in the corner, content to watch him write. She did not fidget, as most children did, and after several minutes, Javert forgot she was even there. They sat in silence for a quarter of an hour, Javert working and the girl watching, until she spoke for the first time.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice was thin and high pitched—reedy, like a starving cat—and Javert started. Cosette flinched, as though he would strike her. Normally, he would not have bothered answering; he had more important business than the petty questions of children. But by brushing off the child, he insulted the mayor as well.

"I am writing up Pierre Chesnelong, the carter. He lost control of his cart this morning, and it almost ran a woman down in the street. It is the second time in six months that he has caused an accident—last time, it crushed a man, and Monsieur Madeleine was only just able to save him."

Cosette studied him with that solemnity so strange in a child. It was not until he returned his eyes to the paper that she spoke again.

"Papa says you are very good policeman, and that people do not need to be afraid when you are there."

"Does he?" Pleasantries were awkward on his tongue.

"He says that people are afraid of you because they think you are cruel—but they are wrong. He says you are not cruel, just very honest, but sometimes they cannot tell the difference."

Javert could not contain a snort. The mayor was right in one respect—the townspeople _did _fear Javert—but his responsibility was to the law, not the people. The mayor thought the best of everyone; Javert's opinions came only from what he observed.

"Monsieur Madeleine sees much." Javert knew the mayor thought highly of him, even if they disagreed more often than not. In turn, Javert had always nursed a grudging respect for Madeleine. Once he knew for certain that he was not Jean Valjean, he had no reason to mislike him. "Though he is too lenient for his own good."

She was silent for a few more minutes.

"What are the cells? Papa would not let me see them."

It seemed that now she had started talking, she could not stop—or maybe she was making up for those weeks of silence. But at her words, he hesitated. He remembered how agitated the mayor had become at the mention of cells, how insistent that Cosette not see . . . but the mayor was not here.

"I will show you."

For once, the holding cells were not empty. Jacques Bertrand had been caught yesterday evening stealing liquor from the tavern; he sat on the cold stone, dirty and unshaven. The stench of alcohol still clung to his clothing.

"Why is he here?"

"He stole from the innkeeper. He will stay here until the court decides what to do with him."

Cosette stared at the man somberly. "I stole some bread from an innkeeper once," she said gravely. "I did not finish mopping the floor, and so I did not get any supper. But it was cold, and I was very hungry, so I snuck some bread from the kitchen." She drew back from Javert, as though he would seize her right there and throw her in with Jacques Bertrand. "Must I stay in the cells? I hope not; Papa is kind and lets me eat as much bread as I want."

Iron bars would have to wait until she was older.

"You are but a child, and jail is no place for a child." It had certainly not been kind to Javert as a boy. "Come, let us go. Monsieur Madeleine has probably returned by now."

The chill in the summer air promised autumn, and Cosette shivered. She wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, and as she did, the sleeves fell down her arms. She was quick to cover them against the cold, but still Javert saw the faint yellow and purple marks near her elbows. They were bruises, though fading. For a moment, he wondered about the innkeepers in Montfermeil, but he stopped himself quickly. It was none of his concern; _inside_ a home, he had no jurisdiction. One thing was certain, though—the mayor would not allow anyone to lay a hand on her. Whatever horrors she had known had passed; that part of her life was over.

Cold fingers brushed against his own, and he recoiled. Cosette had reached for his hand, no doubt out of habit—Javert often saw her walking hand in hand with the mayor. But he was not Madeleine, and her arm dropped back to her side. She said nothing, but there was a hint of reproach in her big blue eyes.

That surprised him. She did not fear him—or at least, she seemed no more frightened than usual. The other children ran at the sight of him; she had not yet learned to. Once, Javert had caught the florist's little boy putting a stick in the axle of the farmer's wagon. The boy had nearly fainted with fright before Javert had even said a word. But Cosette walked beside him willingly, eyes dry and placid.

They must have been a strange sight, the big inspector taking small steps to match the child, but no one dared call to them. Halfway to the mayor's office, he felt a tug on his arm. Cosette had reached for him again, though this time she grasped only the fabric of his coat sleeve. When he shrugged her off for the second time, she did not try again.

x x x

The mayor was frantic. Javert had barely made it through the door before he rushed to the child.

"Cosette!" He lifted her into the air, as though holding her up to the light to make sure she was unharmed. "My God, are you alright? Where have you been?"

"I'm fine, Papa." Winter turned to spring when she looked at the mayor. "When I could not find you, I remembered the police station and I went there. Monsieur Javert took care of me."

"He did?" The mayor studied Javert for a long moment. Javert shifted awkwardly. To be commended for apprehending a criminal was one thing—to be praised for watching a child . . . "Indeed, you could not have been safer with anyone else."

The mayor looked thoughtful.

"It is nearly midday. Javert, won't you stay for lunch?"

Instinct conquered surprise. "A mayor does not dine with a spy. And I have been no better than a spy—or have you forgotten?"

The mayor regarded him bemusedly. "Heavens, Javert, you are not _still_ frothing over that misunderstanding? I tell you once again, nothing came of it. Put the matter from your mind."

Javert would do no such thing. There was no pardon for his crimes, whatever the mayor insisted.

"Now, then," the mayor continued. "We are going to the café down the street. Will you accompany us?"

Some of the other officers took their lunch at the café. They were only given an hour, but often they stayed for two, sometimes half the afternoon. They were flippant and made jests when they should have been working. Javert was never so neglectful of his work, and he watched them with irritated disapproval.

"I cannot. I must return to the station."

The mayor did not press the matter. He nodded. "Thank you for bringing me Cosette. You have again gone beyond your duty, and for that I am in your debt."

"No matter. It . . . was not much trouble."

The strange thing, Javert thought as he left, was that it was almost true.

* * *

Rarely did Javert leave the station before dusk, but on that particular night he could find nothing more to do. His citation of Pierre Chesnelong was finished, his daily report drawn up, his recommendation to the magistrate concerning Jacques Bertrand sent. There was only one pile of papers on his desk that night: processed.

To fill the time, he extended his nightly patrol of the town. The main street was deserted, and so he turned down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc. The houses there belonged to the wealthy; they were large, with well-manicured gardens and elaborate gates.

The mayor lived in the very last house. It was smaller and older than the others, and it looked a little out of place among the bigger houses, as though it did not quite belong on that street. The garden was plain, surrounded only by a simple rock wall, and there were no rosebushes or climbing vines, just vegetables. Javert wondered why the mayor did not hire someone to tend to it—he could very well afford it.

The door opened as he passed, and a slight figure flew down the steps to the street.

"Hello, Monsieur Inspector." Ten hours earlier, he had never heard her voice.

He slowed, though he did not stop altogether. She fell into step beside him.

The door opened again.

"Cosette!" An old woman stood in the doorway, her grey hair falling out of its bun—the housekeeper, he assumed. "Come back here! You'll be chilled to the bone, child!"

Cosette stopped in her tracks. She glanced between the woman on the stairs and Javert. Her eyes were no longer fearful as she looked at him; indeed, she seemed to have taken to him since that afternoon.

The door opened a third time. This time it was the mayor.

"Cosette? And Javert as well. We seem destined to cross paths today."

Javert thought he saw faces appearing in the windows of the neighboring houses. As a policeman, he detested scenes in the street—to be the cause of one was doubly distasteful. He regretted turning down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc at all.

But while Cosette dared to defy the housekeeper, not so the mayor, and she ran back to him. Madeleine turned to Javert.

"You did not join us for lunch, Inspector, but perhaps for supper? Madame Moreau has made a fine stew; we can easily set the table for three."

Stale bread and cold meat awaited Javert at his apartment. Rarely did he have hot meals, and the night was growing chilly. His two rooms were dark and cold; he did not see fit to light a fire except on the most dismal of winter nights. But he could not set foot inside the mayor's home. Houses were foreign to him. A house was for happiness and a family. Javert had never known either.

"I must finish inspecting the streets. By the time I am through, your plates will be cold," he said, and took his leave.

And yet from that night on, he detoured down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc before returning to his apartment. In reality, the street did not need to be patrolled; most crime took place down the main way around the shops. Still, something drew him to that little house with the plain garden and simple stone wall. He did not understand why; it was no more than some strange whim. But Javert did not suffer whims—to himself he justified that he was simply concerned for the mayor's safety. Not even for the sake of the mayor; Madeleine was an integral part of Montreuil-sur-mer, and the entire town would suffer should some harm befall him.

Only a single candle was ever lit in the mayor's window, but even that seemed almost painfully bright to Javert. He could see the silhouettes of the man and girl as he passed. They were a strange family, the dignified mayor and orphaned child, and yet obviously happy. Together, they had found their place, content and warm in the little house. And Javert observed them from his, the station he had held all of his life: from the outside in the cold street, looking in.


	3. The Convict & the House, Part 1

**No Worse Than Any Man**

_The Convict & the House, Part 1_

It was a bitter autumn morning when the stranger arrived, and yet he wore no coat. His yellow shirt was ripped and coarse, and he carried only a knapsack on his back. His hair was shorn on top, but straggled in bristly whiskers on his chin.

Javert, watching the man walk sullenly down the street, one leg dragging a little, knew his story without being told. He was a convict, and as all convicts were required, heading to the mayor's office to show his yellow passport.

Javert did not intercept him, but made a note to himself to visit the office that afternoon. The police station would receive the man's documentation to put on record, but the clerks were slow and Javert's judicial appetites did not wait.

He never made the trip. Two hours later, he was summoned to the men's workshop.

A circle of workers, the men jeering and the women gasping, had formed in the street. At the center, the foreman and the convict wrestled. Silence fell at Javert's arrival.

He wasted no time in tearing them apart. Several of the men helped the foreman to his feet; the convict stood apart from them, glaring at the ground.

"You," Javert said to the foreman. "Tell me what is going on here."

The foreman looked vindicated.

"Inspector Javert, thank goodness you have come. This man—" he pointed at the convict "—has caused the disturbance. He came to the factory this morning, and when I told him we had no work for him, he refused to leave. I had to throw him into the street, and when I did, he came at me."

"I see." Javert turned to the convict. "You are aware that striking a man and disturbing the peace is a punishable offense? You are in for six months."

The convict did not meet Javert's eyes. He kicked at the dirt with one scuffed boot.

"I didn't mean no harm, M'sieur Inspector. They told me I could find work here, that they would take me, but he said there are no jobs and threw me out."

"We have no room," the foreman said to Javert. "Not for the likes of him."

The convict lunged at the foreman, arm raised. Javert was between them in an instant. The townspeople began shouting again.

"Convict!"

"Throw him back in jail!"

"What is all this fuss?" Madeleine had arrived, and he quickly took in the scene: the foreman shaking his arm threateningly, Javert restraining the convict, and the workers who quieted at the sight of the mayor.

"This man caused a brawl in the street," Javert said. "When the foreman asked him to leave, he hit him. I am taking him to the station at once."

"Wait a moment, Javert." Madeleine addressed himself to the convict. "Why did the foreman ask you to leave?"

"He said there were no jobs, monsieur." The man looked at the mayor accusingly. "You said they would take me, but instead they threw me out."

"And are there no jobs? You cannot take one more?"

The foreman was both abashed and defiant. "We do not want him here. He is not what you think, Monsieur Mayor."

"Oh? And what is he?"

"He's a convict, Monsieur Mayor." The truth was out now. "Claude Dumont came into the workshop an hour ago. He said that a stranger had come to the mayor's office this morning to show his yellow passport—that he spent four years in the prison at Madelonnettes for burglary, and is on parole. There are women in this building, Monsieur Mayor—we cannot have a convict amongst us."

Madeleine was silent for a long moment. He looked at the convict pityingly, and his eyes were sadder than Javert had ever seen them. It was as though by refusing this man, they shunned Madeleine himself—as though this man's suffering was his own. Reluctantly, he spoke.

"Yes, it is true. This man came to my office this morning. He showed me his papers, as the law requires, and asked if there was any work to be had. He had walked a long way, he said—35 miles just yesterday—and he would work for little. I myself suggested he go to the factory; the pay is good, and the foreman fair, I told him.

"And now you have turned him away."

The foreman seemed to deflate.

"Monsieur Mayor, I thought—I did not realize—if you told him . . ."

"Your workshop has room for one more?"

"Yes, monsieur. He can work the belt chain."

"Thank you. I trust the matter is settled."

"Yes, Mayor Madeleine."

The foreman and workers filed back inside. They still eyed the convict suspiciously, but the set of their faces was not as grim. They did not like the business, but their faith in the mayor overrode their distrust of the convict—if Madeleine had _personally_ sent the man to the factory, they would accept him. For if the mayor had no problem with the man, why should they?

Only Javert, Madeleine, and the convict remained.

"I am sorry about this misunderstanding, monsieur," Madeleine was saying, "but I do not think you will have any more trouble. There is work here for those who are willing. Monsieur Girard at the inn will give you a room until you find somewhere to stay. If you ever have need of me, you know where to find me."

Javert did not miss the way the man's eyes lit up at the word "monsieur." The title had been stripped from him in prison, and the mayor returned it casually. His eyes, which had scarcely left the ground, darted up to behold Madeleine with wonder. "Thank you, _thank you_, Monsieur Mayor. You are too kind. I won't cause no trouble, you'll see."

He made to enter the workshop. Javert shifted.

"Monsieur Mayor . . . I must take this man to the station. Misunderstanding or no, he is guilty of assault."

The convict's eyes returned to the ground, but Madeleine's stare was level.

"I do not mean to undermine you, Javert, however often we disagree. But this man meant no harm, surely you can see. He has been treated unfairly; this matter was through no fault of his own."

Javert's jaw clenched; it was all he could do not to gnash his teeth in frustration. Again and again, Madeleine interfered with police business: first Fantine, and now this man. It seemed _the mayor_, not Javert, had become the arbitrator of justice. This man deserved to be arrested; crimes begetted punishment. The law made no exceptions, and yet Madeleine did not want this man jailed _because he was already a convict?_

Javert's next words were through gritted teeth, barely audible. "You are free to go. Take care not to do so again."

The man breathed freely. His face had changed; the sullenness had faded into hope. He nodded to Javert and made a strange half bow to the mayor, then entered the factory.

Now only the two of them remained in the street.

"Thank you, Javert," said the mayor. "I know it was not easy for you."

"Why did you let him go?" Javert's question was pointed—normally, he would not have dared address the mayor as such, but his irritation burned high.

"Couldn't you see? He has spent the last four years atoning for his sins. He has repented, and for what? Every door is closed to him. No one has shown him any kindness."

"To break the law is to be punished. You are the mayor—surely you know this."

The mayor sighed.

"They are too harsh, these prisons. Madelonnettes, Toulon. The chain, the lash, the plank . . . solitary confinement for a wrong word, the double chain for nothing at all . . ."

Javert looked at him sharply.

"Or so I have heard," the mayor amended.

Javert was silent for a long moment. To him, Madeleine's still face resembled another's, and his memories returned to different man, dressed in the same torn tunic and stained trousers. Jean Valjean had spent nineteen years in prison; the first five were for theft, the next fourteen for trying to escape. After each attempt, they put him on the double chain, fed him less, lashed him harder . . . and when those nineteen years had passed, he left Toulon a shadow of his former self. He had entered a man—he left only a number: 24601.

"Sometimes they are unnecessarily severe," he admitted. He remembered the crack of the whip when prisoners collapsed from exhaustion, the smell of their searing flesh when they were forever branded a convict. "I would not deny them food when they cough too much to work, or force them to sit on the stone when they have paid for a chair. But someone must keep the balance between the law and evil."

"And yet we are all brothers in this life." The mayor looked up to the sky. His lips moved silently, as though he spoke to a dear friend long departed. "It was not punishment this man needed, but forgiveness. That one act of kindness may be all he needs to become an honest man."

* * *

It was on that night that Javert first set foot in the mayor's house. As he had done of late, he turned down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc, and as he passed, Cosette ran out to him.

"Papa says to invite you to supper."

Javert's answer was the same.

"I cannot. I must finish walking the streets."

"He said you'd say that. He says that he needs to talk to you about the man from today—it is important police business that cannot wait till morning."

Javert paused. The mayor must mean the convict, but the streets had been quiet for the rest of the day. If it were truly urgent, surely the mayor would have sent for him at the station. Though he _did _have the report on the disturbance in his pocket. He had intended to give it to the mayor first thing tomorrow . . . but he could easily do it now . . .

Cosette rubbed at her arms to warm them. In her rush, she had not put on her coat, and she shivered in the evening air. Fantine had shaken like that as he questioned her at the station. The cold had been her death. The mayor had not saved her child only to have her meet the same fate.

"Come," Javert said. "The night is turning cold."

He followed her hesitantly up the steps, like a horse trailing at the end of its lead. Despite the mayor's repeated invitations, it was with utmost reluctance that he finally obliged. He could not shake the feeling that somehow he was not welcome—this little family would be torn apart if he stepped over the doorway. Javert was not invited inside houses; the only time he set foot in a home was when it had been burgled. His actions then were precise and efficient: he asked questions, examined a broken window or a forced door, took notes, and left. A household in an uproar was familiar to him. A peaceful one . . .

Cosette slipped off her shoes by the door. Javert left his boots on. He would not be staying long. The mayor appeared; even in his own home, he was no less dignified.

"Javert, wonderful. Let me take your coat, Inspector."

Javert's greatcoat stayed firmly on his shoulders.

"You wished to discuss something with me?"

"Yes. Come, have a seat." Javert did not move.

"Perhaps now is not the time . . . ? Tomorrow morning, maybe . . . at your office?" He reached into his pocket to withdraw his report, carefully folded. The mayor did not take it.

"I am at leisure," the mayor said. "Besides, I must ask your opinion."

Javert paused. "_My _opinion? Surely the chief would be more qualified . . . or perhaps the superintendent in Arras . . ."

The mayor shook his head. "No, it is _your_ opinion I seek. I have been thinking very hard about today's scene at the factory, and always I return to the same conclusion. It is the only answer that is right, I think: I wish to make Montreuil-sur-mer a haven to those on parole."

Javert made an incredulous noise, but Madeleine held up his hand before the dissents could tumble out.

"Hear me out," he said. "I do not think it so absurd. The factories provide ample opportunity for work, and the life here is a peaceful one. All I am suggesting is to give them a chance for a new life without ridicule or scorn—a job and a room, free from judgment."

"Monsieur Mayor, you cannot be serious—it is an open invitation for crime and gluttony! The streets will be a nest of cutthroats and thieves. We will be overrun—they will flock to Montreuil-sur-mer like flies to honey. Honest citizens will not be able to walk without fear."

"No, I do not think so. You saw the man today; all he wanted was a chance to earn his keep. _He_ was the one afraid—of _us_. The world has released them from one prison only to put them in another, only this one's chains are society, not iron."

"Your intentions are good, that much I see. But you do not know—you have not been there. You have not seen them. They are not human—they are less even than dogs. They are stupid and illiterate; they do not laugh, they do not weep, they do not feel. They are brutes."

"They were men once. I do not see why we should not allow them to be men again."

Through it all, Javert had stood just inside the door, his report on the convict in hand. It seemed all the more important now to the make the mayor understand. If one man had disrupted the entire town, what would twenty do?

"You asked for my opinion, Monsieur Mayor, and I have given it. It is not the one you seek, but I cannot condone this idea." Again, he offered the report, and again the mayor waved it aside. "I take my leave."

Madeleine sighed. "No, Javert. It is I who should apologize. You have done no more than your duty, and yet I ask you for something you cannot give."

"I still think this is madness, and I cannot help but hope you will abandon the entire thing—but if you are insistent on this idea, you _must_ appoint someone to watch them. For everyone's safety. Even _you_ cannot be so blind as to think they will suddenly develop scruples."

A hint of a smile tempered Madeleine's mouth.

"You read my thoughts exactly, Javert. And I confess, I have the very person in mind."

"Oh?" Javert ran through his colleagues in his head. Captain Fortier was tough and clever, but old age was creeping up on him. He had slowed down too much to handle a potential insurrection. Lieutenant Labarre was a promising young officer, but still green; convicts would be too great a responsibility.

"You. That is why I summoned you inside."

Javert had not thought to consider himself.

"Monsieur Mayor, you cannot possibly expect me to manage these . . . vermin. My job is to uphold the law, not willingly destroy it."

"But who is better qualified? You were a guard at Toulon—you know their minds and how to handle them, should trouble arise."

That much could not be denied.

"It would mean additional duties . . . but you have always been diligent, to the point of single-mindedness. I do not think you would find it too taxing—but I will speak with the chief of police all the same about an increase in your pay."

Javert was not convinced. Madeleine's appeals grew more fervid.

"Is it not your duty, Javert? To protect the innocent, and punish the wicked?" He was more animated than Javert had ever seen him; his eyes shone with some strange fervor. "Well, here are the right and here are the wronged—but who is who?"

"I . . . will consider it."

"Good; we will work out the details at once. Though since this is not yet official city business, I cannot let it interfere with my other duties. Shall we say 7 o'clock tomorrow evening?"

It was not often Javert felt so thoroughly wrong-footed, and he found himself agreeing and bidding the mayor goodnight before the words fully sunk in. His hand on the doorknob, he faced Madeleine one last time.

"Do you not want my report?"

"Keep it. It can wait until morning."


	4. The House, Part 2 & Finale

**No Worse Than Any Man**

_The House, Part 2 & Finale_

Their ritual was entirely strange to Javert, but each night he grew infinitesimally more comfortable. On the second night, he took a seat by the mayor in the sitting room. It was a wooden chair, upright and uncomfortable, that Madame Moreau had brought in from the kitchen.

"My apologies, Inspector," she had said. "I am afraid we are ill-equipped; Monsieur Madeleine does not often have visitors."

Still, it was tolerable enough to sit in front of the fire, and once Javert found himself stretching his legs toward the warmth. He caught himself before the mayor noticed.

On the fourth night, Javert took off his coat. He half suspected the mayor had purposely built up the fire for that reason alone. Almost sweltering, he had pulled at his collar.

"My goodness, I have been most remiss," said the mayor. "Forgive me, Javert—let me take your coat. It _is_ terribly warm in here, isn't it?"

Javert had no choice but to hand over his overcoat. He should have been more comfortable, but instead he only felt exposed, though the mayor was in only his shirtsleeves as well. Still, he forgot soon enough as they talked; as he was leaving, it was with a jolt of surprise that he saw his coat hanging beside his hat.

After a week, Javert nearly swore off the whole thing altogether.

"The transition should be a quiet one, I think," Madeleine had said. "Monsieur Girard will give them lodging at the inn—the town will pay for it, if necessary—until they make other arrangements. They will be given work at the factory with no questions asked, and for full pay, of course. There is no need for their pasts to be publicized; without premature judgment from others, they will fall easily into a new life."

"The citizens must be notified of their arrival. It is their right to know of criminals in their midst," Javert replied.

"Their right, perhaps," Madeleine agreed, "but it is not _mine_ to disclose such information. A man's past crimes are no business of ours."

"The townspeople must know—_you_ must tell them, so that they may take the appropriate precautions. If a man comes into the bakery to buy a roll, the baker must know that he is a convict. And with that in mind, whether he sells the loaf at all is up to him."

"That sort of treatment is exactly what we must _avoid_, Javert, and by exposing their pasts, we only encourage it. If I am the baker, it means nothing to me whether a man _once_ stole a loaf of bread, years ago. It is none of my concern; to me, he is merely another paying customer." There was steel behind the mayor's courteous tone, but Javert was just as unyielding.

"What you propose is no more than hunting—but a very unsporting kind. The townspeople will be like sheep ambushed by wolves in the night."

"The police will know. _You_ will be privy to every detail, and no doubt you will be twice as watchful for the rest of us. Is that not some consolation?"

"Not enough. Many eyes see what one pair cannot, and no amount of diligence can counter ignorance." For every word the mayor spoke, Javert's teeth ground together harder. Madeleine looked no less frustrated, but still neither would budge.

"The documentation will be on record at city hall. Should anyone wish to examine it, they may, but I will not advertise it."

"It is not advertisement; it is the rightful disclosure of information," Javert insisted. "The citizens must know exactly who walks among them." The room was no longer blisteringly warm, but Javert was still steaming. Any minute now, he would lose his temper, and the words would start spilling uncontrollably.

Incredibly, it was Madeleine who boiled over first.

"Javert, you are a stubborn, unforgiving man!" he cried. "For once, set aside the law in favor of what is right!"

Javert froze. Never could he remember anyone speaking to him in such a manner, and certainly not one of his superiors. He did not know whether to simply get up and leave or to erupt in his own outburst; in the meantime, he sat stiffly at the very edge of his chair. But even as he prepared to stand, the mayor cooled.

"I am sorry, Javert," he said, looking contrite. "You have done nothing, and I have lost my temper. I beg your forgiveness; I am certainly not faultless, and I feel very strongly on this matter—that much is apparent, I am sure."

"I . . . am not blameless, either," Javert conceded, not without difficulty. "Though my opinions are no less strong. My thoughts regarding this will not change, however much you appeal to my . . . better nature."

The mayor's mouth hinted at a smile. "I have no doubt of that. Let us put the matter to rest for the night—I fear we will make no more progress. Let us speak of other things."

Javert settled back into his chair. As the mayor collected his thoughts, Javert's eyes wandered the room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a chair for each of them, a small rocking chair, presumably for Cosette, and a chest in the corner. Cheap paper covered the walls, and the light from the fireplace revealed cracks in the ceiling. However rich the mayor was, he remained a man of simple tastes.

Simple tastes, maybe, but not a simple mind. For when he finally spoke again, this time about expanding the factories with the increased labor the convicts would provide, his arguments were well-measured and thoughtful. And this time, after some carefully mild debate, they managed to agree.

x x x

On the anniversary of their two week meeting, Madeleine took Javert's coat, but did not lead him into the sitting room.

"We are late dining tonight," he explained. "Madam Moreau has tried a new soup, but by accident has made too much. It is a thankful coincidence that you are here to help us."

"I do not wish to interrupt your evening. I will return tomorrow."

"Nonsense—you cannot be an interruption when I have invited you. You are already here, and the food is ready to serve. You would not want it to go to waste."

"It will not be wasted—there are three of you to eat it. Madam Moreau will join you."

But the mayor was insistent. No one had ever been bold—or stupid—enough to try to bribe Javert; the consequences would be dire, indeed. It would be easier to make a deal with the Devil himself. The Devil collected men's souls; Javert had no use for them. But perhaps the mayor had no need of his, either, for he pressed the matter with unusual persistence.

"There is too much for three, and it will spoil by morning."

"Then feed it to the dogs." Javert stopped cold. "Forgive me, Mons—"

Madeleine rarely laughed; when he did, the unexpectedness of the action overshadowed the laugh itself.

"Oh, Javert. Your mind thinks of nothing but work, even when there is no work to be done. The law will not crumble without you—at least, not in the time it takes you to eat your supper."

Javert still did not move, but Madeleine called into the kitchen.

"Madame Moreau, set another place. The inspector will be joining us."

The meal was simple, but it was hot and the portions generous. It was better than Javert had eaten in some time—good enough to make the experience _almost _bearable. Madeleine sat at the head of the table, Cosette to his right and Javert across from her. The table was small enough that Madeleine's arm brushed Javert's own when he reached for the salt. Javert did not move the salt back to keep it from happening again.

Thankfully, the mayor did not speak, other than to praise the soup, and Cosette ate ravenously, though it could not have been too long since her last meal. Javert, thoroughly uncomfortable, kept his eyes on his dwindling food; when his bowl was empty, Madame Moreau was quick to refill it. The silence continued as he ate the second serving, until the mayor set down his spoon with the same finality with which he put down his pen after finishing a mayoral missive.

The kitchen was as bare as the rest of the house. The plates were pewter and the utensils plain wood. The only objects of any value were two silver candlesticks on the table, out of place among the cheap tableware. They were very old but obviously well cared for, and they shone in the flickering light they cast. When the meal was over and Madame Moreau cleared the plates, the mayor himself put the candlesticks in the cupboard. He handled them carefully, almost reverently, and Javert wondered if he was the one who polished them with such care.

Cosette joined them in the sitting room. Usually she stayed in the kitchen with Madame Moreau; Javert could sometimes hear her thin, high voice chattering along with woman's broom strokes. Tonight, though, she sat in the corner, preferring the floor to the small rocking chair. Every so often, she spoke to her doll, quiet words of childish nonsense.

"And how is Catherine tonight?" Madeleine asked.

"She is well. She was cold earlier, but now she has warmed up. She lives in a castle, and the castle is always warm."

"I see." The mayor's eyes were bright, as they always became when he looked at the girl, but his expression was troubled. Javert, studying Cosette in the firelight, could not see why. She had gained weight in the last several months; her cheeks were filling out, and her face no longer had that sickly, pinched look. Her hair was carefully brushed and beginning to gain some luster. She was still not pretty, but she smiled now—and when she smiled, she looked like any other child.

The mayor shifted, leaning slightly toward Javert. "She is much happier here," he said softly. "But she does not play with the other children. They laugh and play games in the street, but she sits alone."

Javert thought Cosette had not heard the mayor, but she had put down her doll.

"I do not like the other children, Papa." Her eyes still had that disconcerting concentration. "They are mean and will take Catherine from me, like 'Ponine and 'Zelma."

The mayor's eyes shone sadly in the light. "The innkeepers in Montfermeil had two daughters of their own," he said in a voice too low for Cosette to hear. "They were not kind to her."

Javert shifted uncomfortably, and his chair creaked the protest he did not voice. The mayor's personal troubles were none of Javert's business. Listening to Madeleine's quiet words, as though he were almost _confiding_ in him, Javert felt more than ever that he was intruding on the household. Their conversation ended at the introduction of convicts to Montreuil-sur-mer—or at least, it should have.

Perhaps the mayor sensed the cause of his agitation, for his voice was brisk as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

"I have written a letter to the state asking for permission to appeal directly to Toulon. I had hoped you would read it before I send it tomorrow; if I have forgotten something, you certainly will remember."

Javert unfolded the paper. The mayor's handwriting was neat but blocky, as though he wrote each letter with painstaking concentration. It was not the elegant script of a bourgeoisie, but more like the careful print of a schoolboy who was still practicing his letters. Still, the missive was well-written and clear.

"I see no mistakes," said Javert. "It is ready to send."

"Then I will send it tomorrow morning. Perhaps we will have our answer within the month; I would like to start this winter, if possible. I am most grateful for your help, Inspector—it would have been terribly difficult without you."

Javert thought he had probably more caused dissention than given assistance, but wisely he did not say so as retrieved his hat and coat. The mayor spoke to his retreating back.

"You are welcome here whenever you like, Javert—the door is never locked. I do hope you will join us again for supper."

Only the first part registered.

"You would do well to lock your door, Monsieur Mayor. Montreuil-sur-mer may be a small town, but there are still thieves who will rob you blind or murder you in the night."

The mayor smiled. "None that will harm us. We keep but a simple house, and we have nothing of such value that we fear losing it."

"If there are to be convicts in this town, you must take some precautions. An unlocked door is not safe—it is better than an invitation to them."

"It _is_ an invitation. What is mine is theirs. And yours_,_ too, for that matter."

If nothing else, the last two weeks had taught Javert that it would do no good to argue the mayor's ideals; thus, he only shook his head as he stepped outside. The door swung shut behind him, closing with a solid thud. Perhaps it was unlocked, but to Javert, it was barred as if bolted shut and barricaded from the inside. However welcome the mayor insisted he was, that door was forever closed to him.

* * *

At five minutes to seven, Javert was passing the large houses on the way to the mayor's. They had finished their business the previous night; it was no more than habit that he turned down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc at all. Still, he paused outside the mayor's house, hidden in the shadow cast by the apple trees in the neighboring garden.

All seemed as usual; a candle burned in the windowsill, and he could almost smell the food that probably simmered on the stove. It was late for them to be eating, but the silhouettes inside were not yet seated at the table, bent over their bowls. Instead, they stood, table abandoned and plates growing cold, as though they waited for one more.

Perhaps they did—they waited for _him_. It was an altogether startling revelation. Even as he watched, the mayor's face appeared in the window. He scanned the street, searching for the inspector's tall form passing through the garden and climbing the stairs. But Madeleine could not see Javert, almost lurking in shadow, and after a moment he pulled back from the window.

Javert stood as still and solid as the trees in the neighboring garden. The mayor's words from the previous night repeated themselves unbidden in his head: "You are welcome here whenever you like, Javert—the door is never locked. I do hope you will join us again for supper."

"I do hope you will join us again for supper." It had not been a courtesy driven by politeness; the mayor's voice had brimmed with sincerity. Could it be that he truly _wanted_ Javert to join them? Javert could not imagine so. No one had ever wanted him before. Not even his own mother—he had simply been a burden, one more dangerous liability in the prison. Here, the citizens tolerated him because of the fear he inspired in wrongdoers; the other officers accepted him because he was ruthlessly efficient. His presence was simply to be borne—he was something to be suffered, not wanted. And yet the mayor, of all people, seemed to find some strange pleasure in his company.

Even stranger, Javert thought, was that he was almost tempted by the offer. For a fortnight, he had spent his evenings in the house. At the time, every moment had seemed unbearable, and he had wanted nothing more than to flee the bright sitting room and retreat to his own dark apartment.

But now, something compelled him, kindled his inexplicable attraction to the little house at the end of the street. Inside were foreign things, a life completely different from what he had known. But slowly, over those two weeks, they had begun to seem less strange. He had become almost . . . comfortable in the upright wooden chair in front of the fire, the mayor at his side. It was an altogether peculiar combination—the mayor, Javert, and the child of a whore Javert had once arrested—but somehow, their destinies had become intertwined.

In the distance, the church bells tolled seven. Normally, the last chimes rang in tandem with Javert's knock on the door. Tonight, they echoed alone. The silhouettes inside waited still. But when five minutes more had passed and still Javert's rapping did not come, man and girl finally took their place at the table.

It was better that way. The ringing had faded, and so too had whatever spell that had overtaken Javert. He saw clearly now how truly absurd his thoughts had been, and he slunk from the shadows and continued down the street. He had no business entering the house. There was no place there for him; Madeleine was the mayor, and Javert only an inspector of the police. Only through their duties would their paths ever intersect. It did not matter however respectfully the mayor treated him or politely extended invitations—they would never be equals.

After that night, Javert did not turn down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc again.

* * *

The bells had not stopped tolling. Something was wrong—normally, they rang ten times to mark the hour. They had not stopped for the last ten minutes. Javert grabbed his hat and headed from his dim rooms to the equally dark street.

A crowd had formed in front of the church. Some of the townspeople carried lanterns, and the flickering light lent a terrified cast to their confused faces.

Now that he was closer, another sound was added to the fray. The bells tolling did not completely overpower a voice, high-pitched and frantic. It was a child, and he was crying.

"It is the bellboy, little Philippe," said one of the women. "He lives in the rectory with the curé and rings the bells."

The curé made his way back to Javert. "The stairs to the bell tower have finally given way. I spoke with Monsieur Madeleine several months ago about having them replaced, but we had not gotten around to doing it. Now they have collapsed, and Philippe is trapped."

"I cannot reach him." Lieutenant Labarre had come out the church door. He nodded to the curé, but spoke to Javert. "Our ladder is not long enough, and even if it was, there is nothing to rest it against; much of the floor is rotten. It may hold a small boy, but I do not trust it to support a grown man."

"And the fire department?" Javert asked. "They do not have a longer ladder? Perhaps to reach him from the outside?"

"No, sir. The chief has sent for the department in Hestin, but it will be near morning before they can get here."

"There is no other way to get him down?" Javert had not seen Mayor Madeleine in nearly a week since sending off the letter, but the mayor looked exactly the same. He took in the clanging bells and wailing boy with a thoughtful expression.

"A rope, perhaps?" suggested Labarre. "But there is nothing to tie it to. All that is left is to jump . . ."

"Surely not!" said the curé. "The fall would break his legs, if not his neck! If only we had replaced those stairs. We did not realize they were so unstable . . . if we had only known . . ."

Labarre nodded in agreement, but Javert was watching the mayor. His expression had turned from contemplative to calculating; it seemed to Javert that he was sizing up the church's stone wall, surveying every nook and crevice. Slowly, he removed his jacket and handed it to the curé.

"If you would be so kind as to hold this for me, Father," he said. The curé stared at him confusedly, but Madeleine was already pushing through the crowd to the wall.

"What does he mean?" the curé asked, but there was no need. For as they watched, the mayor pressed his hands flat against the stone.

Slowly, he began to climb—in actuality, it was less climbing than pure strength. The mayor hauled himself up the wall using just his arms until he found some slight indentation for his feet. Then he began to climb in earnest. In the darkness, it looked all the more precarious; one small misstep and he would lose his balance completely.

The townspeople gasped and called to him.

"Come back, Monsieur Mayor!" they shouted. "It's too dangerous! You'll fall!"

But the mayor did not fall, and kept going steadily. Inch by inch, he made his way up the wall. His hands somehow found grips in the stone, invisible to the rest of them. The people around watched with bated breath and wide eyes, but Javert's only narrowed.

He had only seen one other man who could climb like that. Jean Valjean, apart from his prodigious strength—or perhaps because of it—could scale straight up an impossibly flat wall. Often, he had climbed like that onto the prison roof at night.

Now, watching the mayor creep steadily toward the bell tower, a small flicker of doubt plagued him. Beneath his well-made clothes, Madeleine's figure looked somehow menacing, turned beastly with that savage strength. But Madeleine was not Valjean—they had gone over this before. Still, Javert's spine tingled as he watched the mayor rise ever higher until he disappeared entirely, as though he had simply climbed into the sky and out of sight.

The bells had stopped tolling.

The silence was eerie; the crying had stopped. The mayor was nowhere to be seen, nor the boy.

And then, a leg. The mayor moved twice as slowly as before, his form no more than a black spot already in shadow. The boy was a lump on his back, terrified and clinging.

The mayor moved carefully; no doubt it was twice as perilous with the extra weight. Once he almost lost his grip, and he dropped nearly a foot before he could catch himself. The boy was petrified into silence—the only sounds were the collective gasps of the townspeople and the tear of fabric as the mayor's shirt caught on the stone and ripped.

Five minutes turned to eternity until his foot reached the pavement. Immediately, the boy dropped off his back and fell to the ground, sobbing renewed. The mayor leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The citizens swarmed him.

"Monsieur Mayor, you are a saint!"

"I don't believe it! You saved the boy!"

"God bless you, monsiuer!"

One of the men helped the boy to his feet, and the child ran to the curé, pressing his face into his cassock.

"Thank the Father you are safe. And Monsieur Madeleine as well; we are blessed tonight. Come, some hot soup and bed will mend you as good as new." The curé turned to Javert. "Here, Inspector—the mayor's coat."

The coat was heavy on Javert's arm as the two entered the small building next to the church. The townspeople began to disperse as well, clapping the mayor's shoulder or shaking his hand as they left. Madeleine had not moved from the wall, and his head hung heavy with exhaustion.

Lieutenant Labarre shook his head. "Incredible," he said disbelievingly. "And for a man his age . . . I've never seen anything like it."

Javert had. Still, he said nothing. Labarre nodded goodbye and headed off toward the station.

Javert and the mayor were alone in the street. Neither moved, until finally the mayor pushed off the wall. He began slowly, but as he advanced toward Javert, he walked more steadily, as though his legs were regaining their strength.

The dim light from the streetlamps played strange tricks, for the mayor looked wild, like an untamed animal. His eyes were sunken and terrifying. They met Javert's, and for a moment, Javert was stricken.

"Your coat, Monsieur Mayor." The mayor took it. Unspoken words hung heavy between them, but Madeleine made no mention of missed dinners.

"Thank you, Javert." His voice was exhausted, but courteous as always. His face shone with exertion, and sweat dripped down his neck and onto his chest where his shirt had ripped.

"Monsieur Mayor . . ." Javert trailed off. The mayor looked at him, but Javert did not continue. There were no words for this doubt. Champmathieu was Jean Valjean; the matter was settled, and he had returned to Toulon. There was nothing more to be said.

But the man who stood before him . . . could _two_ men in the world have such a brutish strength? And as Javert stared at him, the mayor's features hardened. It became a sinister face, with a fierce profile and dangerous eyes underneath brooding brows. A face Javert had not seen for nearly eight years, since the day he had handed Valjean his yellow passport and released him on parole . . . until earlier that year, when he traveled to Arras. He had identified the man there—_Champmathieu_, not the mayor, was Jean Valjean. He had been certain then, but if he had been mistaken . . . if they had sent the wrong man . . .

But as he looked at him, the mayor was again only Madeleine. The wildness drained from him, and his features softened into their usual kind expression. He had begun to shiver in the cool air, and he put one arm into his coat.

It was no more than chance that Javert saw. The mayor reached his other arm back to shrug on his coat. His shirt stretched taut against him, and the rip in the front widened for a split second.

But in that second, Javert trembled. A tremor ran through the world, as though it had been turned upside down and wrenched apart. This could not be—for all of Javert's recurring suspicions, it was simply not possible. For despite their physical similarities, Madeleine and Jean Valjean were not at all alike. Madeleine was well-mannered, kind, intelligent—everything a convict was not, could never be. Mayor Madeleine, who left his house in the morning with pockets full of money and returned home with them empty, the coins given to the orphaned children who followed him in the street. Mayor Madeleine, who had felt such duty to a dead woman that he adopted her child. Mayor Madeleine, who had won the trust and adoration of the town a hundred times over.

Mayor Madeleine a _criminal_?

For the townspeople to have been so deceived was one thing, but surely Javert was a better judge of character. He could not have been so easily fooled. Certainly he, of all people, would never have come to respect a _convict_. No, the answer was simple—Madeleine could not be Jean Valjean. _Jean Valjean_ could not have become _Mayor Madeleine_.

But neither could Javert's eyes lie. For there, on the mayor's chest, were five numbers Javert would never forget, etched into his memory as surely as the brand on the mayor's skin:

24601.


End file.
